Through Her Eyes
by Abegweit
Summary: In times of desperation, Hermione decides to tell Ron something she's kept hidden for a long time...


A/N: I hope you like this one. Wrote this in fifteen minutes while listening to MJ and Paul McCartney. R&R, please.

Disclaimer: If I owned HP, right now, I would be in my Scottish Castle grounds, call my dogs to heel and walking in the breeze, not typing stupid stuff like this on my comp.

Summary: In times of desperation, Hermione decides that she needs to tell Ron what she's kept hidden for a long time...

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**THROUGH HER EYES**

We're walking down to breakfast, and I'm thinking of how much he's changed during the last three weeks. Come to think of it, we've all changed; but no one as much as he has. There's almost a desperate kind of fire in his eyes these days, as though we don't have much time left.

He's thinking deeply about something now, worry lines appearing on his forehead; I don't know what, but I'm worried about him. And about me. About us. There are times like these when I fool myself. Then, almost immediately, I realise that there **is** no 'us.' Ron is just my best friend and I'm his. There's nothing more to tell. But I wish there was, desperately.

I don't when it was that I fell in love with him. Me, Hermione Granger, who felt herself to be strong in everything, stumbled for the first time when she met his eyes. That was in the beginning of seventh year; his eyes were fathomless, I felt I'd drown. There was also something there that I couldn't read, no matter how hard I tried.

Every time I see him with his head in his hands or in some similar position indicating helplessness, I want to go to him, hold him and tell him that we'll all make it through the war, even if we're hurt beyond healing. For we won't escape unscathed, I know that for certain. Wounds will tear our skins and hearts, and some of us may not be here in the end. But we will win; evil cannot prevail when there is so much good in the world.

Harry suffers most; none of our suffering matches the pain he's living through. His shoulders sag more with every passing moment and the weight of his responsibility grows harder to bear. But he has Ginny and us to help him, and we try our very best to take some of his pain and fear into us.

This morning, Ron's head droops more than usual, and his hands are practically shaking as he reaches for his pumpkin juice. He doesn't respond to my query either. We all realise that it is only a matter of a few days until our fate is sealed. The end is near; and we're all waiting. We will be leaving to fight in a few hours, and we may never come back.

Before that, before laying my life on the line, there is one more thing left for me to do. Tell Ron I love him. Tell him that he is my rock when everything around and about me crumbles. Tell him that he is the one that keeps me alive and breathing when night has fallen on the world, when everything else is dead and gone. Tell him that I would give my life and everything in it if only he would love me back. And yet ironically, I don't stand a chance. Nobody, Ron much less, would be likely to fall in love with bookworm, know-it-all Hermione Granger and yet... I wish that the impossible would happen. Because if it did, I would go to this last war happy and satisfied, and not worry about wounds or death. I'm not afraid of death. I'm human; I'm only mortally afraid of Ron's rejection.

I go up to him, tap him on the shoulder and ask him whether I could speak to him for a moment. Harry and Ginny look at me curiously (perhaps I'm trembling) as Ron follows me silently.

Now that he's standing in front of me waiting for me to speak, all the courage I've been building up for this oozes out of me so fast and I can't speak. He thinks I've gone clean crazy, I know, but I can't help it. All that comes out of my mouth is "Ron..."

And he says, "What is it, Hermione? What's wrong?" I give a shaky laugh and say haltingly, "It's nothing; I wanted to say something to you before we left for the final battle, but now...," my voice trails away helplessly.

He looks at me, and then says, "Tell me, Hermione." And I, despicably, couldn't find my courage and mere wished him good luck for the battle. I ought to have known better. He wouldn't take that for a satisfactory answer.

He said, "That wasn't what you meant to say, was it, Hermione? Tell me." He was looking at me beseechingly, as though he wanted me to say what he wanted to hear. His eyes were blazing with hidden emotions. I lost my head completely then. I burst into sobs and fell limply into his arms; all my pretence washed off. And as he held me, I thought, "What the hell... I don't care." But I did, terribly, and my love for him was eating me alive. Then I told him.

He was... stunned. And delighted! The worry lines disappeared like magic and his face, which had looked older than his years, suddenly looked younger and boyish again. Somehow, I knew then, as he whispered, " I love you, 'Mione," and held me tightly against his chest, my tears soaking his robes, that I did not care whether I lived or not, but this moment was worth a lifetime of happiness for me.

I carried that memory of his transported face with me into the horror of the battlefields. That was what gave me the strength when I was drained, kept me alive in times of despair, helped me keep faith when all around me were giving up. Ron gave me life; he was the air I breathed. Ron was my seraph.


End file.
